Anywhere You Are (3 page)

“Turkey club,” she said.

“And I'll have the same.”

“Great.” The server jotted down the orders on her pad and tucked it into her apron pocket. “I'll be back in a moment with some waters.”

“Why are you giving me that look?” Marc said when the server had disappeared. “A turkey club is an ideal lunch. A complete, one-dish meal—carb, protein, vegetable. Tidy. Neat.”

“And you like tidy and neat?”

“Most of the time.” His eyes traced her face, lingering on her mouth. “But not always.” His voice had gone deeper, huskier, and then she realized something shocking.

Straightlaced, conservative Marcus Colby was flirting. With her.

More than that—she liked it. A whole damned lot.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “What else do you like?”

“Closing a deal,” he said. “Hard work that pays off. Good whiskey. And green eyes.” He gave her a level look and his voice deepened. “Take off the sunglasses, Grace.”

She couldn't resist him if she tried, but even more, she wanted to show him everything he wanted to see. Slowly, she slid them off and placed them on the table.

His gaze raked her face, and then the corners of his mouth turned up—just a little. Enough to show he liked what he saw. “Gorgeous.”

At that moment, a middle-aged woman wearing a pink polo shirt came up to the table. At first Grace thought she might be another server, but when she didn't immediately say anything, Grace froze.

Shit.

“Are you her?” she demanded of Grace.

As quickly as she could, she shoved the sunglasses back on her face and turned away. “Sorry, no,” Grace demurred.

“May I help you?” Marc asked.

“You are, aren't you?” the woman insisted.

Marc frowned, his stern look back full force. “You're disturbing our lunch.”

“You look just like her,” the woman continued.

“Madam, if you don't stop bothering my dining companion, I'm going to have to call the management,” Marcus said.

The situation was spiraling out of her control and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“You are!” the woman declared. “You're her! I'd recognize those cheekbones anywhere. I'd heard you were living in Eastbridge, but I didn't believe it!”

“What's going on here?” Marcus demanded. “Who's
her
?”

“Why, Grace Davingham, of course!” the woman said, and Marcus went still at her name.

Her famous, ink-splashed, tabloid name.

“Is it true?” he asked softly. She couldn't look at him. Wouldn't. “Grace?”

He reached over and pulled off the sunglasses, searching. She knew full well the guilt written all over her face revealed everything.

Marc's expression shifted from surprise to recognition and finally to comprehension as he realized who she truly was.

Grace Davingham.

Child model. Daughter of rock royalty. It girl.

Liar.

Marc swiveled his head around. “Where are the cameras?”

“There aren't any,” she said quickly. “I swear.”

He narrowed his eyes, obviously not believing a word she said.

“You
are
her!” the woman exclaimed, oblivious to the tension between them. “I knew it! I was sitting over there with my friend Susan, and I knew as soon as I saw you sit down at the table. I said, ‘Susan, that's Grace Davingham!' I have a daughter who's a huge fan. Would you?” She thrust a napkin toward Grace.

Grace pasted on a smile—the fake one that made her cringe every time she saw it in photographs. “Sure,” she said, her voice weak. “But I don't…a pen…?” She looked over at Marc, who crossed his arms over his chest, his expression one of abject disgust.
I'm out
was his very clear message. Quickly, she looked away.

“I have one!” the woman said gleefully as she produced it from her pocket and handed it to Grace. “Wait until I tell my daughter I saw you,” she said as Grace started scratching out her name on the napkin. “She's going to
die
! Just die! Could you make it out to Gina? When are you going to go back on
An Evergood Life
? We
loved
you in the first two seasons!”

The woman asked her some more questions she couldn't answer, but she murmured some nonsensical responses anyway. She finally got the damned napkin signed and the woman went away. Then she forced herself to face Marc, who was sitting there, his fists now clenched tightly, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Tell me,
Grace,
” he said, the cold hardness of his voice matched only by the steely look on his face. “Did you plan to make a fool of me today, or did you just get lucky?”

Her throat was dry, closed up. “It isn't like that, I swear,” she croaked.

“Really?” he drawled. “Then tell me how it is. Because the way I see it, I went out of my way to help you—in good faith, I might add—only to find out you were playing me the whole time. But you knew exactly who I was from the moment I told you my name, didn't you? Admit it!” There was no coldness anymore. Just a white-hot anger that made the scar on his cheek stand out even more prominently.

Her gaze slid sideways. “Not exactly. I mean, I knew about Briarwood, and I heard the talk about the new owners…” She trailed off, unable to bear telling him the whole truth, but knowing she was only digging herself a deeper hole.

“Jesus. The perfect patsy to set up for your little TV show. Are you even hurt, or was that a lie too?”

“I am. I swear!”

“Ms. Davingham?” Sure enough, another couple of people had come up to their table, and others had taken out their cellphones. One man brazenly snapped a picture of the two of them. Grace put her fake smile back on, just as she was trained to do, but that seemed to anger Marc even more.

“I'm not doing this,” he said tightly. “I refuse to be a part of this…this fucking circus.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered through clenched teeth, the only thing she could say.
So, so sorry.

“So am I,” he ground out. In jerky, angry movements, he pulled out his wallet, tossed some bills on the table for the food they'd ordered, then stood up, his size alone forcing the people back. He threw on his suit jacket and came around to Grace's side of the table. “Come on,” he growled, scooping her up and grabbing her crutches before she could protest.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Getting out of here.”

Being in his arms wasn't at all nice this time as he stalked toward the door. His face was a mask—a terrible blank mask. No emotion. Not even anger anymore. Just…nothing.

She looked away, but that was worse. Another snap. Another picture for the tabloids.

The crowd at the door parted to let them through. More pictures were snapped as they escaped into the warm summer afternoon. Some people had followed them out of the restaurant, still clicking away on their cellphones.

Grace turned back to Marc, and for the briefest second, his mask slipped and she saw it. Fury and a look that told her he was contemplating murder.

Hers.

He practically threw her into the passenger side of his car and slammed the door loudly, then slid into the driver's seat and took a deep breath. She braced herself for him to vent, to yell, to scream at her for ruining his afternoon.

For not telling him who she truly was.

Instead, he ignored her. Just calmly started the car and carefully backed out of the space.

She was being dismissed, utterly and completely.

To her horror, she felt telltale tears stinging in the corners of her eyes.

Clearly, she'd been out of the limelight for too long, because in times past, having people take a few candid shots wouldn't have bothered her, but this time it did. A whole lot. Because it was clear she couldn't have a normal life since stuff like this—stuff worse than this—would happen, would keep on happening. And there was nothing she could do about it.

Marc was staring straight ahead, not talking, not looking at her as he pulled onto the Post Road and headed toward Eastbridge. It hurt. More than hurt—it burned.

This day had started out so well—a hike, a drink, some sketching—but had ended up a freaking disaster.

And, as usual, it was her own damned fault.

On Wednesday morning, precisely at ten a.m., Marc was sitting at a conference room table in the well-appointed offices of Garotte & Wren, an old-school Hartford law firm that had represented his family for generations. A picture of the founders—two pinch-faced men in three-piece suits—hung on the wall behind him. The place reeked of money—understated and nonobvious, of course, as was befitting the clientele the firm served.

Norton Colby, his father, had taken his place at the head of the table, flanked by his latest toy, a blond, blue-eyed woman who was wearing a dress that showcased her ample assets. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, making the age gap between her and his father almost fifty years. Not that she seemed to care; she was running her hand through Norton's silvery hair and cooing softly in his ear. Bethany, he thought her name was. Or maybe Bethann or Bethy, or something else with a Beth. Not that it mattered. His dad would dump her in a month or two, same as he did all his girlfriends, so learning her name at this juncture was an exercise in futility.

Marc slid his gaze to one of his older sisters, Alexa, forty-five, who was seated next to their dad, watching the scene with a look of disgust on her typically composed face. To Alexa's left sat her husband, Ronald, a super-sharp, super-driven finance guy. They had two kids who weren't in attendance. Good thing, since the kids weren't very well behaved. Both Alexa and her husband worked all the time and the nannies they hired weren't big on discipline. Plus, the kids loved their grandmother, and they didn't need to see their grandfather's girlfriend or the fact that her hand had slipped under the table and was now caressing Norton's thigh. At least, Marc
hoped
it was his thigh she was caressing.

Unfortunately, Marc's mother, June,
was
witness to this ridiculous display of affection between her ex-husband and his girlfriend. Seated to his right, she'd clasped her bony hands so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had turned white. It pained him to see his already fragile mother like this, but it pained him more that after all this time she still pined after her ex-husband like a lovesick puppy. She'd grown thin and weak, fading away before everyone's eyes. Of course, his dad was oblivious to her agony, and was now toying with Beth-whatever's bra strap under her sleeveless dress.

Marc arranged his expression into one of complete dispassion and focused on his other older sister, Whitney, forty-two years old but as yet unmarried. She sat to his left, ignoring the scene completely as she scribbled in her leather-bound Filofax, undoubtedly adding yet another task to her lengthy to-do list.

Whitney spent much of her time and energy on various community service projects. She was a member of the Junior League, the DAR, and the Library Board, among other organizations. She'd done a lot of work for them in Westport, where she'd returned to live after college at Vassar and had become a pillar of the community. Yet many people thought she was defective because she wasn't married with a passel of kids, which, in his opinion, just showed their narrow-mindedness. His sister was happy, and he wanted her to be able to do whatever she wanted without being judged.

Norton ignored everyone at the table, focusing instead on whispering something in his girlfriend's ear. When his parents had gotten divorced a few years ago, Marc couldn't understand how they'd lasted that long. His mother was beautiful, poised, and gentle, the perfect wife for a hard-hitting surgeon. She'd given her husband the best years of her life, putting her own career as a schoolteacher on the back burner in order to raise their children. He'd been an asshole to her almost from day one, yet she'd borne it with the patience of a saint for one reason—she loved him. She'd been willing to put up with anything as long as he stayed with her. But then, one day, he'd come home and announced he wanted a divorce.

Marc sighed, wishing he weren't there, not just because he had to deal with his father, but mostly because being present at the reading of Aunt Sarah's will reminded him that his beloved aunt was no longer alive.

Things hadn't been going his way lately. The situation at Briarwood was heating up. He'd met with Press and Jake that morning to plan for their board meeting next week—the one that would determine whether the trustees would throw their support behind the renovations or give them pushback every step of the way. Needless to say, the stakes were high. He'd missed an important meeting to attend Aunt Sarah's funeral, so his deal with the Russians had fallen through. He'd also had to postpone his trip to India, and Lord knew that the Mumbai project needed a hell of a lot of work. To try to get the Mumbai project back on track, he'd thought to take a calming, reflective walk through the woods, and that's when he'd met
her.

Grace Davingham.

Which had ended on a definitively downward note.

Unfortunately, now he couldn't get the damned woman out of his mind.

He remembered exactly how her hip had felt pressed against him, all gentle curves and soft sweetness. That sassy curl of her lips when she smiled. And her eyes. Those amazingly expressive eyes filled with humor and warmth…and deceit.

She'd riled him up, and not just because she'd lied to him about who she was. It was because he'd wanted her, and that had destroyed his most valuable asset—his objectivity.

Marc prided himself on his ability to remain calm in almost any circumstance. In a high-pressure negotiation with billions on the line. Holding his liquor while the other side got wasted after closing a deal. While his girlfriend of six months was grabbing her clothes and walking out the door after admitting to cheating on him….with his father.

He couldn't imagine Grace doing that, but then again, he didn't know her. Nor did he want to. She'd been trouble from the first minute he found her in those woods, and being the daughter of one of rock and roll's most infamous stars would only make things worse.

Unfortunately, his body wouldn't get on board with the plan to forget her.

Maybe the whole thing really hadn't been a setup. She was really hurt—after all, she couldn't have faked that swollen knee—and in retrospect, she hadn't seemed at all pleased about being found out, when if she'd planned the whole thing, she'd probably have been thrilled. He also hadn't seen any video cameras, in either the restaurant or the woods. And for all the due diligence he'd done on Briarwood and Eastbridge before approaching Press with the proposal to buy into the golf club, not once had he heard about Ms. Davingham or any of her antics.

No.
Women like her were dangerous. He had to forget her.

His watch indicated that it was three p.m. on the nose. Time to get this show on the road.

As if on cue, Randall Wren, the grandson of one of the original partners, entered the room and sat down at the conference table. He scanned the faces of the people seated there. With his large physique and his bald head, the man looked nothing like his brown-feathered namesake.

“Thank you all for joining me here,” he said in a strong, clear voice that didn't quite match his exterior. “We have all assembled for the reading of the will of Sarah Margaret Colby. Do you have any questions before I begin?”

“Yes,” said Marc's father. “How long do you think this will take? Bethamy and I are heading to Nantucket on the evening ferry.”

Beside Marc, his mother tensed, but Wren simply looked at Norton evenly. “I'm not sure, Dr. Colby,” he said dispassionately, one of the few people who could get away with treating his father with anything less than sycophantic awe. “It will probably depend on how many questions you want to ask.”

Alexa rolled her eyes at their father. “When was the will prepared? Who notarized it? And was Aunt Sarah in sound mind when the event took place?” As a corporate lawyer for a big Manhattan firm, she obviously knew the protocols and procedures, and Marc was only too happy to let her have at it.

Wren nodded. “Ah, yes. I can assure you that your aunt was of sound mind and body when the will was executed five months ago. In fact, I had the pleasure of doing the work myself, Ms. Colby being such a longtime client. She personally entrusted me with its preparation. If you have any doubts at all, I am happy to show you the paperwork.”

Alexa seemed satisfied. She gave a short nod to Wren, then whispered something to Ronald and sat back in her seat.

“If there are no other questions, let us begin,” Wren said. He began to read the preamble, a long, droning piece of prose that included all the CYA stuff that lawyers wrote into almost every contract, and Marc would know, having read enough of them.

After ten minutes of legal mumbo-jumbo, Wren got to the good stuff. “To my ex-sister-in-law, June Masters Colby. I always liked you, even after my idiot brother divorced you. You're a good woman, and a smart one, too. I'll never forget your kindness to our late mother. You were like another daughter to her and she talked about you until the end. To that effect, I leave you the sum of two hundred thousand dollars and the sincerest wish that you should be happy.”

Marc's mother had bowed her head, and when he realized she was crying, he wrapped his arm around her. It was like holding a ghost, she was so thin. He met Alexa's eyes across the table, but her attention was jerked back to Wren with the announcement of her bequest.

“To my niece, Alexa Colby Schwartz,” the lawyer intoned. “My bright, bright girl. You were always so clever, so sharp. And so empty. Take a vacation. Spend some time with your kids. The summer we saw those geese on the lake, how they took off, wings in flight, is one of my dearest memories. I know you remember it, too. Hold on to that and soar, darling. I know you don't need it, but I'm leaving you the sum of one million dollars, plus my gold brooch, which has been in the family for five generations, to be passed on to your daughter when she is of age.”

Wren reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small wooden box, which he handed to Alexa. Her eyes were glittery with unshed tears, her lips turned up in the ghost of a smile. Ronald was a big hedge fund manager who pulled in close to a million a year on top of Alexa's hefty salary. The money meant nothing to her, but the brooch and their aunt's words had clearly touched her. She tucked the box into her expensive purse, then leaned against Ronald's arm and closed her eyes.

Wren went on. “To my niece Whitney Emerson Colby: Sweet, gentle Whitney. Never let anyone tell you that you need a man to be successful. You are an incredibly talented and generous woman who should embrace her life and all the good things that come with it. Don't let others define who they think you should be. You already know how wonderful you are. I know you don't want it, but I leave you the sum of one million dollars, with the express desire that you will spend it on yourself and not others. I also leave you my mother-of-pearl hair comb, which was my grandmother's, with the hope that you will wear it in good health.”

From his pocket, Wren removed a black velvet pouch, which he handed to Marc's sister. Whitney was blinking furiously, trying to hold back tears that eventually spilled down her cheeks anyway. She wouldn't look at anyone as she murmured her thanks.

“To my only sibling, my brother Norton Arthur Colby,” Mr. Wren began.

Marc's father shot him a knowing glance and settled back in his seat, a smug smile on his face.

Wren cleared his throat and began again. “To my only sibling, my brother Norton Arthur Colby. You're an ass.”

Norton sat bolt upright. “What?” he sputtered.

“I'm only reading what is on the page,” Wren said. “My job is to read exactly what is written, and—”

“Jesus, just go on,” Norton muttered.

Wren adjusted his glasses and returned to the sheet of paper. “All right, let me see. Where was I? Ah, yes. ‘You're an ass, and in death I can now give you the advice you wouldn't accept when I was alive. Start acting your age. You're only two years younger than I am, so ditch the twenty-year-olds and the sports cars. You have an incredible career and three children who'd love you to pieces if you only stopped thinking of them as extensions of you and started thinking of them as human beings. Smarten up. Stop being so selfish. And go back to your wife. Love you forever, Nornor. And when I see our parents in heaven, I'll tell them hi.' ”

Everyone in the room was stunned into shocked silence.

Finally, Norton spoke. “Tell me that was a joke.”

“I never joke about wills and trusts,” Wren intoned. “And we're not done.” He listed a number of charities and foundations to which Aunt Sarah had left sizable chunks of her estate, effectively curtailing Norton's protestations by piling on mountains of legalese.

It was then Marc realized that his name hadn't been mentioned.

She left me out of the will.

Marc felt less a sense of disappointment than of confusion. It wasn't that he wanted or needed Aunt Sarah's money—quite the contrary. But out of his three siblings, he'd had the strongest relationship with his aunt. He'd doted on her, really, sending her gifts from his travels and visiting her sprawling Eastbridge mansion when he was in town, and the fact that she had left him out signaled to him that she might not have valued their relationship as much as he did.

He was startled back to the present by his name. Relief coursed through him, then a tingling of anticipation.

“Last but not least, to my nephew Marcus Geoffrey Colby,” Wren said. “I see so much of my own father in you. So much potential for life and love. I want only the best for you. But you need to relax, to break free from the rigid confines of your life, to truly, madly live. To that effect, I leave you the sum of one million dollars to do with as you like. I'm hoping that instead of using it for one of your brilliant investments, you'll choose to travel, for fun, not for work. Lighten up a little and stop taking yourself so seriously. To that end, I also leave you my most prized possession…”